Sincerely Yours
by Cryptix
Summary: Watson is penning the last words of the Great Detective. Only one problem - Holmes never wrote any. Alternate interpretation of FINA, as filtered through the continuity of 'Apply Them'. Implied Shwatsonlock.


"I say, Holmes," said I, picking up my pen and waving it thoughtfully. "I have a hypothetical question to put to you."

"Mmm," he answered, his hawkish nose quite buried in a book, which was light brown, without dust-cover, and utterly devoid of any sort of lettering by which to tell what the devil was inside it, but which I well knew to be scandalous Italian poetry, because he occasionally decided to recite them to me.

"This is serious, Holmes. It concerns my latest publication."

"I should say you've contradicted yourself."

Despite being quite absorbed in his book, he still managed to dodge the crumpled paper I threw at him.

"I mean it."

After a few moments and a sigh as one deeply put-upon, he set down his book and leant back with a decidedly over-dramatic flourish. "What is it, then?"

"Say that you had died at Reichenbach."

He blinked. I waited.

"Go on."

"Well, no. Say that you had thought you would die at Reichenbach, taking that devil Moriarty down with you. Say that he granted you five minutes first to write a letter. Whom would you write it to, and what would it say?"

He blinked again. Then in one long, graceful motion he was on his feet, and began to pace, tapping his chin with one devilishly long forefinger. "This is quite the question. You sure you can't just have me die and let that be that?"

"You play up the dramatic conclusion every chance you can get it, Holmes, how can you possibly suggest that your death be any different? The hero must have last words, and since I, the bumbling fool, have been called away by a ruse, they must be conveyed second-hand."

"A ruse? That dreadful forgery of an emergency?"

"Yes, the Englishwoman taking sick. Come off it, it wasn't all _that_ badly played. But don't change the subject, we're on the last words of Sherlock Holmes."

"I can't lie in your arms and choke them out upon my last breath?"

"Tempting, but no. There can't be a body, or your return becomes strange and contrived and would probably involve something supernatural."

"Ugh. Point taken." Holmes paced over to the mantle and proceeded to fill his old clay pipe. I waited patiently, half-turned in my chair, somewhat surprised that my question should merit such deep thought.

After lighting the pipe and taking a deep puff, and watching the smoke curl towards the ceiling, he finally spoke again.

"This is assuming that we aren't sleeping together?"

I could not help but smile a little. "Correct."

"And that you were still happily married?"

That dashed my smile. I did not like to remember the disastrous end of my marriage. "Correct."

"I would imagine it would be some eminently sentimental thing, full of ill-advised admissions of love and devotion that would blush even an old dollymop."

"Holmes! I will throw this ink-pot at you."

"No, you will not, ink is expensive right now and I happen to know that's the last of yours."

"Then you know how much this happens to mean to me. Bumbling prude or not, I will not take lightly the death of my closest friend."

He had resumed pacing, but hesitated at this for a moment, then picked up again. His chin was sunk into his breast and his eyes were heavily lidded, the picture of deepest contemplation. I was beginning to worry about the track worn into our floor when his eyes flew open.

"I do think I have it, then. Take up your pen, dear Watson, you're going to want to get this.

" 'My dear Watson,'

" 'I write these few lines through the courtesy of Mr. Moriarty, who awaits my convenience for the final discussion of those questions which lie between us. He has been giving me a sketch of the methods by which he avoided the English police and kept himself informed of our movements'-"

"That was quite boring, wasn't it? For a professor, he was a terrible orator."

Holmes cast me a scathing glare. "Do you want my last words, or not?"

"Sorry, do please continue, old boy."

He cleared his throat. "Right then.

" 'They certainly confirm the very high opinion which I had formed of his abilities. I am pleased to think that I shall be able to free society from any further effects of his presence, though I fear'-" There he paused and bit down on his pipe, suddenly looking troubled.

"No, no, that's all rubbish," he murmured around the pipe.

"My dear Holmes, it's your last words. You'll be forgiven a little sentiment, truly. Please continue."

With my encouragement, he did continue. " 'Though I fear that it is at a cost which will give pain to my friends, and especially, my dear Watson, to you. I have already explained to you, however, that my career had in any case reached its crisis, and that no possible conclusion to it could be more congenial to me than this. Indeed, if I may make a full confession to you, I was quite convinced that the letter from Meiringen was a hoax, and I allowed you to depart on that errand under the' - I say, would you _stop_ interrupting me?"

I had, unfortunately, fallen into a fit of giggles and was quite unable to answer. Holmes huffed and glared while I regained my breath and my sense of propriety.

"Allowed, indeed! So sorry, but really!"

"Well, it's hardly my fault if you insist on writing yourself in such a poor light. I'm only playing along." He flopped back into his chair and slouched down, crossing his arms, pulling at his pipe and very pointedly not looking my way. In other words, he was pouting.

"Oh, come on. I didn't mean it."

He gave a dismissive wave. "No, no, it's quite all right. I've lost it anyway. Just finish that sentence and be done with it."

"If you insist."

"I do."

" '-To depart on this errand under the persuasion that some development of this sort would follow.' Sound reasonable?"

"Sounds awkward and verbose."

"Perfect." I finished the sentence and went to sign it, then paused. Something was missing. What was... ah, yes. The conviction had come afterward. The papers had been in-

"Pigeonhole M., done up in a blue envelope and inscribed 'Moriarty'."

Holmes smirked at me from his armchair, his good humour recovered.

"No, no, let me guess. We were already on the subject of Moriarty and I glanced toward your pigeonholes, and you drew it all up from that."

"That and you've started tapping your pen, which you always do when you're trying to remember something."

"Right. The Inspector's name was Patterson, wasn't it?"

"You expect me to remember these things?"

I laughed and added the new information. Still it looked incomplete, but I could not put my finger on what was missing. He'd said his goodbyes and apologies (in a roundabout way), explained his reasoning, given the location for the evidence...

"Property!" I cried triumphantly. "You haven't said anything about your property."

He looked perplexed. "What the deuce is property doing among a man's last words?"

"He gave you five minutes, I doubt you would leave such a large string untied. Come on, now. What would you do with the property?"

"Bequeath it all to you."

"I'm happily married and have a practice, what am I going to do with your property? Besides, I thought we agreed that Mycroft took care of the place while you were dead."

Holmes snorted, as he had the first time we'd discussed this. Apparently he could not get over the idea of Mycroft deviating so much from his usual pattern. "Well, I suppose he might pay Mrs. Hudson to keep it clean and untenanted, as we have."

"Exactly."

He waved his hand. "Fine. 'I made every disposition of my property before leaving England, and handed it to my brother Mycroft.' There. Happy?"

"Quite." There, nearly finished. I set my pen to add the final touch: Holmes' signature.

"Watson?" Holmes' voice was quiet. I looked up to find him studying me with unnerving intensity. He looked away immediately. It had been quite some time since I had seen him willingly look shy, so my curiosity was piqued.

"Yes, Holmes?"

"I'd like... I'd like to end my letter."

I smiled gently. "Of course, Holmes. How would you like it to end?"

He hesitated. " 'Pray give my greetings to Mrs. Watson.' " I flinched, but wrote it anyway. " 'And believe me to be, my dear fellow,'

" 'Very sincerely yours,'

"Sherlock Holmes."

When I finished writing and looked up, he was staring at me, his eyes imploring and anxious. I smiled.

"Perfect."

* * *

_Reviews and critiques are always appreciated._


End file.
